The Definition of Me
by Inkwell of roses
Summary: The Fabrication of each character and how their past helped define them.How it has affected their view on the Games, welcome to the the Pro-Logue of the 90th Hunger Games!
1. Chapter 1

To my orignal reader's and submitters,I hope you don't take it too personally. All of your characters were very much in-depth, and I would love to see them in your own or another SYOC story.I found it a bit over-whelming for me to do the full Hunger-Games. I am a perfectionist, and nothing came out the way I planned. Also mix in some personal life-issues, and I came to realise I wasn't going to give the story any justice. I would love to see any original submitters, re-submit your character again! Also a big thank-you goes out to my Beta-Reader,though this chapter closes may there be better ones in your future. Thanks again to all everyone who ever had an interest in my story, may you never lose your passion for reading/writing

As I mentioned earlier I found it a bit much to do full Hunger Games. This story will let me focus on the finer details of how the past shapes the thoughts of the future tributes. I hope the story will answer that question, as for the real games that's up to you to imagine!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins does. So in other words, anything that I didn't make-up doesn't belong to me. My tributes, that I clearly stated that I thought up do belong to me though.

Format:  
Their childhood before the reaping day.

The morning of the reaping day.

The reaping, justice building and the departure by train.

Rules: There is a password, please send it in with tribute form in bold; if you don't have it I can't accept your tribute. This shows that you have read and agree with the rules.

Rules:  
1. Form sent to me through a pm

2. Please because of limited space or not enough character details, they can be rejected .

3. I try to update regularly, if I don't please understand that other life-things get in the way or writers block. Also don't get up-set if I don't, I will really try.

4.) Please try to have a healthy mount of detail, too much and I can't get really creative; too little the character may be more of a challenge to write for. Password: Beagle

5.) Can enter max of two tributes each. (If I need more I'll tell you)

6.) SYOT will close when I have all tributes.

7.) No Mary or Gary Sue does, please and thank you.

8.) If my writing is quite different from what you expected either with your own or someone else's tribute please respect it. You can leave suggestions but please don't all out hate and complain.

Info about me:  
Hi, first of all I'm planning on finishing this story, so I can say this is my first completed fanfic. Romance, I'm still iffy about writing it, and I know if I try it may come out really cheesy. I love to connect my stories to the real-world, so that would be a big bonus if possible. I like to be original; I try to avoid stereotypes like blood –thirsty careers, or even the really nice I'm not like the rest of the career types as well. I would write about blood-thirsty careers if they a guanine reason to be that way, besides being trained all their life. I like character that are off the beaten path a bit. To be unique but realistic at the same time is what I try to aim for. Thanks for taking an interest in my story though.

Luxury goods, District One Female:

Luxury goods, District One Male:

Masonry, District Two Female:

Masonry, District Two Male:

Technology, District Three Female:

Technology, District Three Male:

Fishing, District Four Female:

Fishing, District Four Male:

Power, District Five Female: (Friend submitted the original tribute and I have to ask her if she still wants me to use her's, till then considered it taken up.)

Power, District Five Male:

Transportation, District Six Female: Cassia Bellmore (Original OC)

Transportation, District Six Male:

Lumber, District Seven Female:

Lumber, District Seven Male:

Textiles, District Eight Female:

Textiles, District Eight Male:

Grain, District Nine Female:

Grain, District Nine Male:

Livestock, District Ten Female:

Livestock, District Ten Male:

Agriculture, District Eleven Female: Bexter Anne my OC was my tribute in The Scared Children SYOC written by Golden Warrior Eagle. (I changed her up a bit)

Agriculture, District Eleven Male:

Mining, District Twelve Female:

Mining, District Twelve Male:

Application for tributes

Name/Gender/Age

Physical appearance:

District:

Personality:

Strength/Weaknesses:

Child-Hood life:

Key events that may have changed them as a person:

Out-look on the games:

Token and how they got it:

Any reaping day rituals:

Intelligence and likability on a scale from 1-10:

Parents include job, can also live with other relatives or may not have any:

Siblings:

Random or "volunteered" if so why?

If tribute from 1, 2 and 4 are they careers?

Extra's you want to add:

A little taste till my first real chapter! Till next time, and thanks-you to all of you whether you're re-submitting your character or totally new for taking an interest in the story!

Cassia's POV: As the sun rises in the wee hours of morning, it grasps the grayish black void of night casting it out, also unknowingly illuminating the symbolic train tracks of district six. I know this scene well, for every Saturday morning, for as long as my mind can stretch, I remember sitting on the edge of them, feet dangling and eyes wide as I look up-wards greeting the new day and all it holds. These tracks are what binds us in labor, a reminder of our purpose of creating the future and moving Panem onwards. The motto for our district after all is, "Proudly keeping Panem on Track." Though I've seen the gritty world of pain, labours literally doing back-breaking work. Funeral, only if they can afford it, sometimes the bodies left there in the ground. For you see in the capitols eyes there is no time to waiver from the task at hand. Even some so old and young, that any decent society would surely show empathy and end the enduring suffering. So behind, the shiny creation they call trains, and the tracks that they travel on, I give them another name, Blood Tracks.


	2. Tomato Soup

Tomato Soup: Cassia Bellmore District Six (Opening Paragraph in Chapter One)

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins does. So in other words anything other than my own idea's, don't belong to me.

If you listen closely in the first few hours of the morning you'll hear the constant, chop, dice and slice of tomatoes being cubed. You'll see a brown cutting-board stained with the red-juices of grade B tomatoes. Oh, the horror of Grade A capital tomatoes being served up in district based diner! Well, that's what the peacekeeper told us when we were filling out our monthly food order slips. The peace keeper also told us, "No, but we'll send tomatoes that our genetic food lab labeled un-fit for capital consummation." "Tomatoes that are merely off-color, abnormally sized, nearly out of date, bumped, or had strange markings or bruises.'' What could we do, merely shut down Bellmore Tracks the one and only diner that served up piping hot tomato soup and penny loaf bread, at bargain prices? I would miss getting up at dawn with my family, prepping tomatoes and putting them in our big clay pot, burnt and stained clearly showing the Bellmore family tradition. Then watering down the soup as much as possible, to make it affordable and cost friendly to the workers and us. Not only that, but I would desire the feeling of the gritty dough churning between my fingers. Miss the fun of firing up the clay-bake oven. Then taking the bread out and banging it against a cutting board, hoping to loosen the bread from its current brick like state. I know the food is awfully bland and meager, but for the workers that enter these doors it's the best that they can get.

The day I met Nolan, it was super dry and humid outside. Laurie my school friend was helping manage the current lunch-rush hour with me. It was chaotic, and the diner was full of laborers they were very sweaty and loud, pretty much kept us on our toes at all time. He blended in easily; silently sitting there in the corner slurping his soup in his rag-torn overalls covered in sweat, chomping on his bread slice with his chipped buck teeth. Only did I notice him when Laurie and I were sitting on one of the run-down stools, swinging our feet and catching our breath. I called out and said, "It's like ten minutes before the noon shift starts, I don't want you to get a beating for your tardiness." He turned around startled, dropping his spoon splashing the now cold liquid all over the floors. He replied, "I'd like to thank you Bellmore, are you a Bellmore?" I looked at him sarcastically and replied, "I'm pretty sure I'm, and why are you thanking me I'm going to have to throw out this rag after I clean-up this mess." "You know, the capital prices are so affordable." He smiled showing me his gap between his yellowed out teeth, "Quite the years ago my friend and I were finishing up a 12 hour shift, assembling a new capital train on the cutting edge of technology for its time." "My bud was bleary eyed and tired, took a miss-step and cut his foot on the many scattered train part that were out, long blood filled gash it was." The manager did offer us a filthy oil-cloth to tie around his foot, then barked at us to finish the work or suffer a ten percent pay cut off our daily wage." "A couple of day later, he stated he felt feverish, his foot swollen, tender and rapidly growing red." "Everyone could plainly see it was a serious infection that needed capital meds, but my friend couldn't afford them." "He couldn't even afford to take time off work, for fear of not being able to fill his empty belly." "So a few days later it got so terrible he had to send me to grab him some grub from the diner, too weak to fetch it himself." "I then carried him out to a mossy stretch of grass near district six's borders, away from all the action." "I hand fed him for half an hour, sponing out portions of soup and trickling it in his mouth." "I saw the most precious sight, a mere smile seeped over his face, as he consumed the soup." "Later in the noon shift his body had enough and shut-down, died right there and then." "The manager unnerved by this sight, told us to leave the body anywhere but here, that he was stinking up the premises." "Knowing that he was un-married and couldn't pay for any type of official farewell, I buried him in the spot where he had his last meal." "I remember though that he was sick and dying, he enjoyed the small moments of drinking his last meal." "I think in a place like Panem when innocent children can die in a game, they need to have something they can hold onto and smile about in the wake of death." Then with a knowing look on his face he said, "Well that was quite the moment, but know I need to get back to work." Laurie and I silently mopped up the soup, but little did we know that this would spark a remarkable tradition…

Reaping day three years later….

"One, Two and three," with that Laurie and I bent down and tipped the watery tomato soup to our mouths. I feel the gush of heat fill my throat, followed by a warm and fuzzy feeling that blocked out the chilly blustery day. Our pants both drenched with the early morning dew, our ears filled with the slight ringing of the electric border gates that encase the district. I remember the first time we decided to come here; we were twelve the first morning of our first reaping. We came to the mossy stretch of grass because Laurie said, "what if?" What if this was the last meal in our homeland, for if we were reaped would we ever go back? That set my mind in motion, I even told Laurie that I wanted a memory that we could look back at in the face of death, that happened among good company and in friendship. I told her, I sought to be happy in those last few moments of life, because I had something to grasp onto. I thought of Nolan's bud, and how a bowl of tomato soup did that, and I wanted to feel that too. So that's why today, I was driven to get up at dawn and ladle out two bowls of sizzling tomato soup, to run kilometers to the outskirts of the district , even when I was out of breath and tired, so that I could finally meet up with Laurie at the mossy green grass. To gather at a place were we could let it all out, for the end could be very near. We shared jokes, our crushes and romped and danced in the grass. Only to be brought back to reality when we realized it was almost noon and the reaping would start in a few short hours. I merely started to get up, only to be stopped by Laurie's hand clutching my shoulder. Her eyes fixated on me as she said, "a moment for Nolan's bud to remember the memory of him." "Yes I nodded, a moment to gather our farewell, maybe for the last time too." So with that Laurie and stood, a perfect view-point of the reaping square, remembering memories of the past and wondering what the future may hold.

My hand played with my slightly curly scattered hair, while the other one tried to adjust the spaghetti straps of my red and black embroidered dress. I started to hop, foot to foot in my black toned wedges trying to stay warm, the soups warming feelings long gone. Eyeing the water-proof grey tarp that covered the main stage, envying those who were protected from the sheets of rain. Only to be distracted by our capital escort, who was now running her long manicured nails through the bottom of the girls bowl. Fixing her sleek grey silk and sequins mermaid styled dress she said, "District Six's female tribute is Cassia Bellmore." In other word me; though in that moment I felt something that I swear no other tribute has ever felt before, peace. Yes, not sadness, self-pity, pride or triumph, but peace. Maybe because I had already said goodbye on that patch of mossy green grass, maybe I knew that this was coming and somehow sub-consciously prepped myself. So after I took a deep-breath and straightened out my dress, I walked to the stage and stood beside my escort. She then stated, "Any volunteers to take Cassia's place?" Nothing, when I looked at the soaking wet mass of people in the square, not a body moved out-of-place. Then she chirped, "Give it up for your female tribute, Cassia Bellmore." I gave a half-hearted smile. She clapped her hands as she moved onto the boys, but for know I couldn't pay attention as my mind began to blur. For you see, my mind was a whirl-wind of contemplation of what this ment for my future.

Two guards led me into the waiting room for visitors; a mini gallery filled with district six's many accomplishments. A hand-woven mat that I stood on even had our district's emblem sown into it. Even a giant model plane hanged above me, and mini models of trains and cars placed in shelves all around the room. Only was my eye drawn away, when Laurie came rushing into the room. Her faced drenched in warm tears, her body shaking and soaked from the down-pour of the rain. She choked back her tears as she removed a damp tomato vine that she punctured a hole in and thread a simple black thread through. "You once said that you wanted a memory that happened in friendship and good company; I thought that this would trigger the memory of all the joyous times drinking tomato soup." My hands are now shaking as I took the token and said, "Let's stop pretending here, I'm not going to make it out alive." "So my only request is that you will now have to make tomato soup for two, Nolan and I." Laurie grasped my hand and said, "Though if you do make it, I'll make sure that's there's a piping hot bowl of tomato soup waiting for you." We stood there silently in our own company only to be shattered by the cry of a burly pair of peace-keepers; they informed us that because of scheduling issues visitor time would have to end now. One of them escorted a shaking Laurie out; we'll the other lead me to the train tracks, the place where my journey would begin.

It's funny how a long time ago I dubbed these track, "Blood Tracks" for the suffering of the labors. Know I also know that these tracks are also stained with the blood of my fellow tributes, in the past and the near present. Yet I sit her travelling to my death, trying to ignore the chirpy speech of our escort by looking out the window. As we throttle full speed to the capital, I notice the setting-sun illuminating the body of train, casting a reddish glow on it. It seems to leave a trail of red light behind us, reminding me of spilled tribute blood. For in my mind, I can't help but think how fitting that is.

Authors Note: I hope you enjoyed my first official chapter. Review of any-kind makes my day, so could you please leave some? Next up-date will be Saturday maybe Sunday at the latest; if I finish earlier I'll post it before those dates. So far as I write this nobody sent in any characters, so plenty of room left. A quick heads up, I'll be away from the seventh to the thirteenth of July and won't up-date three to four days after I get back. Also my next update on Saturday/Sunday might be lengthy so maybe I'll split it into two parts. Just one more thing if your characters story is shorter/longer than average it doesn't me I have a preference to a certain character it just depends on your characters storyline. If you have a short-to the point tribute or somebody who has a lengthy back-store those things are going to affect each tribute's chapter. Remember I appreciate everyone who checks this story out, and just want to say thank-you for your time.


	3. Completion

Completion: Bexter-Anne District 11

Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to The Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins that didn't come from my own mind, doesn't belong to me.

You won't hear about us, see us or even know who we are. Yet we're there, a painful stain in a seemingly perfect society. People's illusions of the capital's perfection lets us grow, for who really wants to come to terms with an errors like us? Maybe they were afraid to realize, that some of the citizens could empathize with the districts. That within the shimmering city lights and the haute-couture fashions, a small pocket of people can call themselves capitalist's, yet be anything but. To have the feeling of looking at themselves and know that they don't belong, to yearn for a place to call-home. You may say think that everyone wishes to be as care-free and opulent as the capital. Well, you clearly haven't seen us, seen me Bexter-Anne.

My knees clench against my chest, the crooks of my elbow freezing from the wind that cuts like knives across them. My face feels flushed, my heart is pounding and I swear I hear my conscience ringing deep inside of me. The glooming shadows and the tint of light that creek's through the cracks of the concrete forest, informs me that morning is almost upon the city. I doubt myself, only realizing in that moment that I shouldn't have run that fast. The cashier decked out with her fake jewel inserts, abnormally golden pink eyes and bouncy magenta hair, had no clue of what I truly done. She ignored my shaky hands and hadn't noticed that I couldn't look her in the eye. For she thought, I was an innocent girl merely picking up knock-off tribute token for five bucks. Oh if she only knew that I had ten times the worth of goodies on me, pure cash-items in the Capitol black-market. Maybe I should have informed her that this would pay for my food and shelter, for the citizens in this city often turn to putty as soon as they hear a wrenching sob-story . Emotionally I fell like the trash that liters this alley-way, though I must push-forward utterly out of utter necessity.

That incident in the alley-way happened a year ago, though it really does happen almost weekly. I feel like I'm on this intricate loop, knowing exactly what I should expect and were my life will take me. Yet I sit here on the hardened cement side-walk, watching people who are too swept up in their life issue's to even notice me. They may not notice me, but I defiantly notice them. A woman who is wearing a navy trench-coat also has a dog that's the same shade. Her eyes too fixated on her phone, didn't even notice her dog went potty only an arm-lengths away from me. I wish I could sleep, for my eye-lids drooped from the lack-of sleep, and my hair moist from the constant drizzle of the rain. Though even in my sleepy state of mind, I kept watch on my target a vintage looking brick building. I placed my hand against my squinted eyes, ignoring the queasy feelings in my stomach. For as I got up and started to shuffle across the street, I told myself that I perfectly good reasons to justify my actions.

As I entered the shop a bell rang, it left a sweetly melodic welcome to all those who arrive. A thick cover of dust lifted from the floor, even though my steps were modestly light. My eye squinted, for they were trying after to adjust to the dusky lighting. I noticed the shop-clerk, a girl about eighteen hunched over some sort of portrait. I notice her eyes, for they were flirting between her canvas and a weathered leather book. I guess my entrance startled her, for she abruptly dropped her piece of art. She turned around and said in a slightly rattled voice, "Hi, do you need my help today?" I cocked my head and in a passive voice stated, "No, I'm just looking around on my own terms." "Though, what are you drawing and why at such an intense level?" She looked at me with a curiosity etching her face, "Really, another capital citizen is taking an interest in something that won't benefit them in any other way?" "I really did think that your kind went missing a couple hundred years ago." "I draw portraits of the past tributes in the Hunger Games." "I swear that I feel like their face tells a million stories, often ones that are very different from what the camera portrays." "While everyone was swooning over the hunk from district two, I was drawn to the girl from eight." "She was the silent schemer type; the artist's that composed her pieces in the shadows." "Yet, against the odds she won those games, at least in my heart she did." "I draw for the untold and unwritten, to connect to the human that lies in those eyes." "Well it does take a certain person to understand this, not like the air-heads that float around this city." "People like you and me who have inner depth, it's un-explainable really." "Well that is the end of my little speech,please excuse me as I search for my pencil kit." She then turned around, climbing the steps that lead to the stores second level. I looked at the portrait, my eyes drawn to the details of both the soft and hardened lines. Wow, I felt the intense stare of a girl playing the innocent card, but really being anything but. The slight glint in the corner of the portraits eyes gave me chills, a master manipulator at work in the games. My hand extended, my mind filled with thoughts of just how much a super-fan of the games would pay to have this art-piece. Though my thoughts were shattered as I heard a distant voice, "Could you please put it back on the desk?" I realized the girl had come back downstairs, so in a mad dash I ran toward the exit. Out into the streets, ignoring the blustery cold rain that pelted against my skin. I saw in the corner of my eye a peace-keeper running towards me, I knew then that I would have to surrender to avoid any form of a violent confrontation. So I did, even now that I'm here sitting in a police car, I can clearly hear the distant voices of the girl and the peace-keeper talking. She thanked him for the return of the portrait, and then said something unexpected. She told him that I deserved the portrait, that she would have let me go if she wasn't afraid of the icy wrath of President Snow. How he demanded anybody no matter what they did to be harshly punished, she then stated that my punishment would be too severe for the crime. Then when that was all over she left, but now that I'm driving to my un-foreseen future I swore I'd never ever forget those compassionate words.

The holding cells for new prisoners were fit for human containment, which is what the peace-keepers told me anyway. I literally had to curl up in a ball, my shoulders rubbing against the moist brick. I was about to drift off to sleep when I heard a sharp voice, "I guess they forget about sound-proofing these rat-holes." I was now wide-awake as I called out, "Who's there?" Shortly after came the reply, "Number 148920, but you can call me Drew." I replied back, "Well my number is 587901, my real name is Bexter-Anne." She then chirped back, "Not nice circumstances to meet, I ended up here because I was caught selling illicit substances." I decided to tell her why I was here as well, "I was caught stealing a portrait from a store." Drew bitterly laughed and said, "Watch them throw the whole book at you, adding on charges that you never committed." "I bet you didn't hear the story of the daughter of Snow's buds, held-up jewelry store and only got off with a fine." "Snow even joked that it was her way of blowing off some rebellious energy, though if it was anybody else their life would be utterly miserable." "Though through the grape-vine I heard of a solution, they send criminals off to the districts instead of a traditional sentence." "I guess they need more slaves, and we the criminals are the best that they got." "I may or may not go; I just thought that this would be a nice topic to close this conversation." Then I got it, I realized that the districts may be my answer. For if I stayed here I would be the poor among the rich, there I would be just as poor as everyone else. The hurting would stop, for I could finally empathize with the people in the districts. Maybe they would heal me; they would complete me in ways that I couldn't do myself. No I didn't just know it,I felt it deep within and sometimes you just got to do what you know is best.

The sweet but musty scent of hay hit my nostrils, the piles of manure wretched my senses and made my head nauseated. I stumbled, for the constant motion of the train made me trip with no warning. I swear, I just feel into one of the many feed and water buckets that littered the premises. As I slowly gazed up-wards, my forehead touched one of many horses that were being transported that day. Yeah, I did take up the deal of moving to the districts. As soon as I agreed they sent me on the next train out-of here, my only company the live-stock that was being transported. Though in their eyes, I honestly believe I'm nothing more then a mere blip in their impeccable city. I bit my parched lip and looked to the cow, wondering if the cow knew what was going on. It's quite extraordinary what the mind can pull out when you don't want to be focused on the moment. I mean for the first time I wondered why cows ate grass, something quite random to the situation. Though my tiredness started to catch-up to me, I need a nap. Even though I was racing to the unknown, I knew that for me right know I needed to catch my-breath. My eyes flirted around, landing on an empty spot between to golden stacks of hay. So with that, I lingered over there and lay my head down slipping into the world of dreams.

Hiccups of dirt lifted from the road beneath my feet, the constant clack of the horse's hooves ringing in my ear. My hand was now cupped against my eyes, the dusky evening light casting luminous shadows all around. I noticed the endless row of fruit-orchards spread out like a vast ocean, ripe fruit dangling from their tree's branches. People in raged worn out cotton dresses and overalls bent over laboring well into the evening. I lurched forward, only coming to a halt as my hands grasped the rough wooden frame of the carriage. As I arched up-wards, I saw the driver who was also a peace-keeper dressed smartly in a spot-less uniform. He swiftly stopped the carriage, sharply barking at me to get up and leave the premises. So with those words echoing in my ears I did, my nails grinding sharply against my arms and my lips puckering closely together, I somehow force myself to walk away. Turning my attention to a little shack, its presence and mystery looming in my face. For this refuge shall provide shelter for the rest of my day, I'll lay my head here after the tedious task of harvesting fruit.

The candlelight flickered in her face, the holder was a woman and her bony hands clasped the candle with the greatest of care. She introduced herself as Monet, her duty was to keep the house in an orderly fashion. She than illustrated about the people that came through the doors, about me being benign and plain. I looked at her and asked sincerely, "When was the moment in time that you realized that you lost your fascination with us, with the capital." Monet expression became softer as she sighed and replied, "I get the feeling that you people aren't as silly as you seem that only they want us to think that so that we create a stark contrast between us." For you see, when people can identify with each other the toxicity lessens and the power of image isn't as powerful." "I like to picture myself as a mere person building people up, it strange knowing that you have the power to play with people's emotions." "We're in the midst of night, your must dreary with sleep." Then I told her that I felt an ache in my belly for food. She then told me about the tradition of food, only to be recieved once you have fulfilled one full shift in the orchard. So with this new understanding, I went to my tiny strip of floor, the place where I could rest and wake to my new life.

Author Note (Second and more up-dated): I'm really sorry for the long break in up-dates, this was originally part of part two. Then I realised it would better to have all the events that happened before the reaping in part one, and talk more about the reaping and her new life in the districts in part two. I will most likely up-date on Friday or Saturday and post part next time, thanks a lot for reading my story !

Author Note(Original note): Well thank you for reading part one of chapter two, the rest as I mentioned before should be posted 4-5 days after I get back from my away-time, I added a couple of more days to my up-date time because I'm a slow writer. (July 7 to 13) Still a-lot of room left in this SYOC, so feel free to send your application in through a pm. I originally entered this tribute into a Hunger Games Submit Your Own Tribute written by, Golden Warrior Eagle. This author did a really great portrayal of my character, so I just wanted to give the author my praise and credit the author's work. Lastly, I just wanted you to know that I changed up the character a bit so I could write a slightly different portrayal of Bexter-Anne. I really do enjoy comments, so please leave one if you have the chance. Till next time, and I really can't thank you enough. :)


	4. Completion Part Two

Completion Part two: Bexter Anne

Disclaimer: All credits go to the original author of the Hunger Games trilogy, Suzanne Collins. Meaning that none of the idea's belong to me unless they are my own creations that I though up.

A Couple Years Later:

It's been a year and in all honesty it seems like the days have melted seemingly into each other, I can only find mere slivers of my past life embed in the deepest parts of my brain. Surely you would think that I would day-dream, that I would look out my window and a time that was less harsh would come flooding back. Though truthfully I don't mind having somebody scrutinize me like a piece of prey, for my fellow labors and I can relate and understand the hardships and trials we endure. Once I was alone, nobody in the city could comprehend my situation and begin to understand it. Though now everybody with the exception of a few choice people, would face and endure it with me. Though with new experiences and way of living comes a new set of traditions, in other word the yearly hunger games. I'm slightly above the grain in the sense that I don't have any extra entries, though were it emotionally counts I'm a wreck. It's a realization that once I was one of them, my eyes fixated on a widescreen TV watching the recap of the kill highlights in the capital. A female on her side, a pool of crimson blood washed over her body though what really got me were those eyes, laced with pity and a pure honest emotion. I may have lived in horrific conditions there, but here I could take her place one day. Really what's wrong with me, I 'm sitting here with only limited time till the reaping begins. If anybody could see me they'd realize I'm like glue, my mind urges me not to move from this spot. Maybe it's because it knows that once I leave, I may never set my eyes here again. Trust me, I know that something inside is griping at me, telling me that I'm comfortable here. For if move I may have to come full circle and face the capital again.

The hot wind-swept through my hair, my eyes glued to the reaping stage waiting for another dreaded reaping to end. Oh how wrong I would be, I mean in those few moments I was sheltered from my circumstances. Truly would I be better off knowing my fate, would I spend less time doing such mundane task if I knew? Yes, surprise and not anticipating your life is over gives you more freedom, I think knowing stunts certain opportunities and makes you a changed person. Though what stings the most is the fact that I thought I left the grasps of those whose manipulate their people so well, yet their stain still stay with me till this day. My name echoed throughout the square, me as tribute for the girls in district eleven. Oh their game is good, giving you false hope and letting you begin again, yet that was never the truth in the slightest of ways. How they can ruthlessly tear their own apart, push them into a battlefield, yet do it all without an emotion running through they're so-called "heart." If you can mix with those lowly life forms, you become un-human and we will never let it escape your mind. So here I stand my eyes fixated on the audience, it so un-real to watch co-workers and friends utter nothing from their lips, knowing that I'm being escorted to my death-bed. Standing here along side the male tribute, I gaze at the endless sea of people before me all packed together knowing their safe for another year. My intuition informing me that volunteers would be non-existant, it was correct in that sense. So I knew what would this mean for me, I would have to begin again for the third and last time.

Something is murky about the situation, I just passed the town square the place were I was supposed to say my farewells. My other half, the male tribute went directly to town hall just as scheduled. As for me, my cart and buggy went twisting and curving about through town taking the most direct route to the train-track platform. We only moved at the swiftest of speeds, the peace-keeper leading me towards the conductor's lodge. Inside it decked out in the simplest of decor, though it was over-shadowed by the ominous presence of the District mayor. The mayor clothed in a grey suit and tie; the mayor's eyes reflected a bitterly cold presence. I quickly sat down; I didn't want to displease the mayor's taste. So for a few seconds the silence and anticipation was as heavy as the morning fog, I could hear the sharp beats of my hearts thump against my chest. Though all of this was broken when the mayor stated, "Patience is key my darling, I'll explain it all in a few fleeting minutes." "Imagine the horrid gasps of the capital when they realized that one of them is playing the game, that they are tangible after all." "In all honesty, we don't want to see one of our own be tortured on-screen, living here makes you forget that you are truly born of the capital." "You can with-draw from the games and live a normal capital life, never to be seen or heard from again." "As you know district eleven has no short supply of children, we can easily swap you with another." "I'll let you sleep on it, maybe after a taste of the capital life will win you over." "Though mark my word dear Bexter, if you don't accept this choice not a soul will be grieving on your grave." He thoroughly looked at the analogue clock that was perched on the wall and said, "Excuse me, why I've more important business to attend." So with the mayor's words ringing in my ears, the mayor hastily departed.

I hear the motion of the train in the background, for in a short passage of time I would be among the lights of the capital. Unlike the many tributes that would be in awe of such a sight, I would know the secrets that lurk in the dark alley-ways. I can hear the siren cries of the people long forgotten, forgotten was I not long ago. The offer and all it hold really does grip me, two different avenues' with very different out-comes. Could I really betray my new-life and not take my place in this deadly game ? Though I know my conscience would ring, for I would send an innocent girl to her grave in my place. Now as we travel toward the future, my heart truly understand that my decision would mold me as a person. So whatever course my life's journey takes, may I always search for completion.

Author Note: Sorry for the long gaps between updates, I really hope you enjoyed reading the latest segment in my story. Comments and pieces of writing advice really make me smile, so feel free to leave some. I have not received any original tributes from anybody, I really would appreciate people to send me their idea's. My deadline is July 31, 2013 to send your original character through a private message, after that I'll finish writing up any entries and then the story will be complete.

Thanks a lot and best regards,

Inkwell of roses!


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